


A Mess

by Ariel_x



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sherlock, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Molly is the bestest friend ever, everything but mostly me is shit Sherlock, it's unclear how Molly bears it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9224810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_x/pseuds/Ariel_x
Summary: post- S4E1.  Canon compliant.Sherlock comes to an only place where his heart might ache a little less.Based on a prompt byrottenbrainstuffSherlock goes to Molly's house for comfort because he's distraught at losing someone he cared about so much and who he felt cared about him (platonically or not, you decide)





	

He walked up to the door, fingered the key in his pocket, took a moment. Turned on his heel and nearly tripped off the two steps leading to street level. He recovered (boritsu instincts) and walked round the block at a measured, leisurely pace. Stopped in a park. Sat on a bench. Walked some more. Too soon he was in front of the same door.

This timidity was ridiculous. Sherlock shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but pressed the bell. May be she wouldn’t be home.

*  
Of course she was home. There he was standing in the middle of her small sitting room, hands in pockets, wishing he could shove the rest of him somewhere dark and crummy too. Unfortunately, Molly’s home was light and airy, and if anything, he was there to expose, not hide.

A pause that seemed to last forever. “Are you all right?” And then “What do you need?” with that poignant inflection of hers that moved him so.

“No, I am not.” He didn’t expect his voice to be so hoarse. “I… “ the words wouldn’t come out. He is what? Stupid, a piece of manure, better off dead, is forsaken and lost forever. Can’t bear to carry the boulder in his chest alone.

She was kind to him, as always, and didn’t wait for him to finish. His Molly, always so very kind, always knew what he really needed. She pulled on a coat too, and was tugging him on the arm -- pulled his hand out of pocket, enveloped it in her own -- “Let’s have a drink, shall we?”

They walked to the pub in silence, Sherlock holding on to Molly’s little hand just a bit too tightly. They drank their first pint in total silence too. And the second.

When they left the pub, Sherlock didn’t need Molly’s shoulder to walk, but he sure needed her hands. What else would direct him to walk in a more-or-less straight line without wondering onto the pavement? Soon, however, he forgot all about Molly’s rudder. Street lamps were so beautiful this time of year. So beautiful. The light diffused just so elegantly, and the specs of rain were exquiss… exquisite in their dancing. Sherlock was the author, the omnipotent ruler of rain drops. He willed, and they obeyed. His arms -- ugh -- hands -- were choreographing the little droplet dancers, and for a few minutes he forgot all about why and where he was -- the air was cool on his face, something dear and warm was propping his chest, and he was floating, floating among the most musical and brilliant water bits ever.

Then he stumbled. The two bloody steps. “We’re almost there, Sherlock -- almost”

He didn’t remember how he got upstairs, didn’t remember how he ended up in her bed, didn’t know how a glass of water ended up pressed to his lip -- but he came to exactly like that -- in her bed, propped against the pillows, drinking out of a glass that his Molly held to his parched lips.

“I am sorry.” He took the glass from her, and looked at her directly. “You’re always there for me. I am the worst shit in the universe, but there you are. Molly, I don’t…. “ She shushed him, but no, this time it didn’t work. “I broke a promise. Molly, I am nothing but a failure. They trusted me, both of them. The both of them trusted _me_ ”

Words were tumbling down in torrents, horrible insults directed at self mixed with exalted words about the best people in the world, the very best, Molly, there aren’t any like that -- not ever -- Mary -- she was just so perfect, Molly, so perfect for him, so real, Molly, if you only knew -- and John, Molly, John trusted me with everything, every bastardly thing (he enunciated every letter) -- I am no one, Molly, I am but a crumbled old shoe -- look, look at me --

His self-loathing knew no bounds, heaviness in his chest was a liquid that was about to start sloshing out, spilling on the small, fragile figure perched by his side. Only then did it occur to him -- she is a saint of flesh and blood. She is as trusting and is as perfect, and he is abusing her, abusing her trust and surreal kindness. The pure rot of his very existence had filled him, and he made a valiant effort to get out of bed, to leave -- all of his twelve stone -- but she was stronger, made of better material, a diamond.

*  
She brought him home  
Took his coat off  
Shoes

He was a slobbering slobbering mess  
He threw up and she provided the bucket  
He talked nonsense until he could talk no more

But she loved him and couldn’t imagine the blackness that dwelled inside since that day. Well, she could, her insides were also charred, she was also angry, and helpless, and despondent.

Yet she cuddled his head and he fell asleep leaning into her.

They were always so messy together. Messy, yes, but he was her mess. She curled up next to him, holding on to his side. His heat kept her warm, the smell of his body, even tinged with alcohol, was familiar and comforting – she reached out to hug him, and he gripped her hand in his, pulling it all the way to his heart, mumbling something very authoritative in his sleep. She fell asleep quickly.

*  
The morning was bright and as if brought in from Mars. Sherlock woke, got up and cleaned way before Molly opened her eyes. 

Unusual. Normally he was either gone by the time she was completely awake, or was fast asleep while she prepared for her day. Not today. By the time she made it to the kitchen, Sherlock was immaculate, coffee was hot, the toast and scones were perfectly warm, and cream was just the right consistency.

“Oh, thank you, Sherlock – “

“No Molly, thank you,” he said pouring her coffee. His back was to her, head lowered.  He gave her the cup without looking up.

“For what, Sherlock?” – she cradled the cup for warmth, suddenly tense and cold in her dressing gown.

“You know very well what for” – he looked directly at her, and his face brightened, lips quirking and brow softening. Then he sat across and steepled his hands.

*  
When Molly comes back from work and drops her heavy bag on the old sofa by the window, she is greeted by a bouquet of fresh flowers, all sorts, red, and orange, and yellow, and green, but no detective. It pains her a tiny bit, but that’s the way they are. 

She doesn’t see Sherlock again for at least a week, yet every day she comes home, the vase in her sitting room sports a new messy fresh bouquet.

She adjust the flowers just so, and for a bit the pain is gone. A mess, yes, but definitely her mess, her very own.

 


End file.
